I wrote this recount a few years back and figured it might need a little sunlight shined on it.
We’ve been on North Padre Island for the past few days, visiting my son and his family. I’ll be 72 on the 17th and figured I owe myself a bucket list item: surfing one more time.
Wes, my son, also a surfer, was accommodating and borrowed a new, all-foam board that he thought I could handle. My grandson has a much shorter board because he is 8. The beach at Padre Island was the most crowded mess I have ever witnessed. Granted, the last time I was on a Texas beach on Labor day was in the mid-90s, and that was at Port Aransas. This was beyond stupid. Thousands of people parking their cars near the water, getting stuck in the sand, hogging any sliver of a spot to reach the water. After searching for an hour, Wes found a small opening and managed to squeeze his truck into the slot.
Beach chairs are unloaded, cooler and surfboards ready, so my grandson and I grab our boards and wade into the surf. As it turns out, the surf today was terrible. Slushy with no good form. We struggled to find a decent wave.
I paddled through the shore break past the first sand bar and tried to sit on my board. Nope, that wasn’t happening. I needed a real fiberglass and foam board. I took off on a wave and couldn’t stand up: nope, that neither. The head injury from two years ago is most likely the culprit. No balance and no equilibrium, and less good sense. Being 72 didn’t help my quest. I was a good surfer in the 60s and 70s, and I figured it was something that couldn’t be forgotten. Wrong on my part. The defeat was at hand, and I took it willingly.
Humility hung on me like my wet tee-shirt. I slow walked it back to the beach. I laid the board down and told my wife, Momo, that I could scratch this one off the bucket list. Sometimes your memories are bigger than your brain.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 